THE X-Men Sequel
by snapdragon
Summary: Finally fixed! and new chapters in the works! (you'll have to read the whole thing over by this time . . .)
1. 1--Enter Gambit

"And in conclusion, my fellow HOMO SAPIENS, it would be unnatural to suppress the anger that we feel toward those of another BREED

Hopefully, this is the last time I have to upload this chapter. Lord have mercy. Okay, y'all, I'm back! AND BETTER THAN EVER! 

So are the character, but they're not mine. Except the waitress. Nice lady.

"And in conclusion, my fellow HOMO SAPIENS, it would be unnatural to suppress the anger that we feel toward those of another BREED. This is not a war against far-distant and easily recognizable enemies. This is about people who look like us, act like us, and live WITH us, but are GENETICALLY different from us! We are not biologically beholden to anyone but our own, noble species, and the time for tolerance . . . is over."

Graydon Creed, Jr., paused a moment to catch his breath and wipe sweat from his forehead. Damn these Nashville summers, how could anyone stand to live here? He had to smile, though, for despite the discomfort of a Nashville summer day, quite a number of enthusiastic people had turned out for the demonstration. They just kept trickling in; police had already rerouted traffic to protect the boisterous crowd that was quickly spilling over the street. Americans knew the truth, and they followed those that spoke it. If they spoke it well.

He continued: "We are justified in our anger! Do we not, as humans and Americans, have the right to protect ourselves from danger? Are we not justified in bearing arms against those that threaten our well-being? MUTANTS—ARE—DANGEROUS!! I count myself as a proud member of the species of Homo Sapiens, and I declare myself a "Friend of Humanity." I am human, and as such, I reserve the right to PROTECT MYSELF, AND MY FAMILY, AND MY COMMUNITY FROM MUTANTS!"

The crowd loved him. Screaming, chanting, angry citizens gathered around him, reaching up to his platform. The people (few as they were) standing on the edge of the crowd, holding mutant support signs, had better get moving, he thought. These people were looking for someone to hate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Only a few blocks down, a tired waitress in a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop sat down in the back room to rest her feet, listening to the echoes of the speech that rolled from down the street. The door dinged, and she got up wearily to greet the customers, hoping for a generous tip. Her hopes sank when she saw the two young men not more than nineteen, in torn jeans and wifebeaters, who had seated themselves in a corner booth. Young guys didn't tip tired thirty-four year old waitresses.

Putting on a pleasant smile anyway, she walked over to the two friends, who were bantering back and forth good-naturedly. "Now, Henri, I had you pegged as a blonde kinda man, but you, you didn' give dat sweet girl last night more'n one look . . ." 

"No, you got it wrong, Remy. One dose of your rugged charm, and she didn' give ME one look."

As she neared, they both turned to smile up at her. The one named Remy had sunglasses on, but then, the booth was in a late afternoon sunbeam. "Ya know, we do have other booths. Ones in the shade," she offered.

"Dat's all right, chere." They both fixed her with dazzling casanova smiles. Remy continued, "But you sure look beat. Why don'tcha sit down and take a load off while we decide what we want"—he glanced at her faded nametag—"Sharon." He scooted to the end of his seat, pulling a bundle over with him. A coat.

"Not that Ah'm not happy to sit"—she suited actions to words with a sigh—"But isn't it a lil' warm out to have a coat?" She was sweating a little now, since the ancient air conditioner was threatening to break down again.

They both studied the menu, and Henri answered distractedly, "It not so warm here. It's nothin' compared to N'awlins."

Remy continued, "We jus' got here, and we be movin' on soon. 'Sides, ya don' see me wearin' it, do ya?"

"Sorry. It's just a little odd for July 'round heah." Straining for another topic to hide her discomfort at sitting with customers, she went on, "So are you from 'N'awlin's?' Y'all got the crazy Cajun accent."

Henri looked over the menu smugly and said to Remy, "See? All de women like de accent."

Remy just smirked. "It be just a drop in de bucket, mon ami." He turned to Sharon. "'Sides, you ain't wit'out an accent yourself—what part o' the south you from?"

"Why Ah was born and raised right here in Nashville." She smiled at them. "That doesn't mean we don't get the odd traveler from the 'Big Easy' up here." Despite her best intentions, she found these two boys to be quite charming. She rose, asking " So, what can Ah get y'all?" 

At that moment, though, the demonstration down the street picked back up. "Not another speaker," she groaned wearily. 

"Dis been goin' on all day, chere?"

She looked out the store window at the approaching crowd, absentmindedly deadheading the petunias in the hanging pot. "Seems like all week. Don't know why they cain't just be quiet."

Henri was in the seat facing towards the demonstration. His menu lay forgotten on the table as he watched the crowd storming down the street. From the window, Sharon heard only a quick, low argument from the boys' table, then the ding of the door drew her attention as Henri abruptly left. She turned questioningly toward the booth and was surprised to see Remy standing behind her, holding out some cash. 

"Here you go, chere. We're sorry to waste your time. But maybe we drop in anoder time, neh?" He gave her a roguish grin, then the door announced his swift departure. Only then did Sharon look down to see the twenty-dollar bill in her hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once outside, Remy had little trouble finding Henri back. A circle had formed around an unfortunate bystander with a purplish tinge to her light skin and dark hair. She looked just odd enough for Remy to assume her a mutant. (There was that, and the shouts of ""Kill the mutie!" to infer from.) Remy saw a flash of Henri's blonde hair across the circle, as the fool swiftly kicked the knees out from under a particularly brutal spectator. _I guess we can be glad de streets aren't cobblestones in dis part o' town,_ Remy thought, _But where de hell are dey gettin' all de rocks?_

He had just enough time to see a big man whirl and punch Henri's stomach before Remy was elbowed out of the way. Almost immediately, the crowd turned on Henri, thinking he was a mutant supporter or something. Remy was too busy scooping up the forgotten girl to notice. He sprinted and dodged back to the coffee shop, to where Sharon stood frozen in the doorway. 

"Take care o' her, please?" He asked, and he ran back into the crowd. 

Finding Henri this time was a little harder. He could be pretty badly beaten by now, and since he couldn't see his signature mop of blonde hair above the crowd, Remy had to assume they had him down. Thinking fast, Remy picked up a small pebble from under his feet. He held it in his fist and closed his eyes for a few moments in intense concentration—he was an odd counterpoint, a pensive island in a savage sea of protesters. In a few seconds, he turned and hurled the stone (which was glowing redly, though none in the crowd saw it) down the street. BANG! A blast like a grenade took a large chunk out of the asphalt twenty yards down, the shrapnel giving a few bystanders minor gashes and bruises. As many in the crowd rushed down to examine the smoking hole, Remy slipped in, hiked a battered and bleeding Henri up to his feet, and (heavily supporting him under the shoulder) ducked into an alley, staggering as well as they could back towards their hotel. 

"Merde! Ya jus' had to be chivalrous to the bitter end, eh Henri? What happened to de ol' 'Look-out-for-number-one' philosophy? " Remy muttered as they limped along.

"I notice you stopped t' help de _fille_ before comin' back to get me," Henri mumbled thickly around a split lip.

"Yeah, well, anyone who does anyt'ing dat stupid deserves what's comin' to him."

Henri managed a chuckle, but winced. "Ooh . . .gotta watch dose ribs . . ."


	2. 2 Logan vs. Sabretooth

Disclaimer: Whoops! Forgot this on the first one . . . don't sue me, Marvel, since I'm using your awesomely, superbly, masterfully nuanced characters and plot lines in dreadfully contorted ways, all for the sake of making a believable movie script because HOLLYWOOD CAN'T DO ANYTHING RIGHT! (and for some reason I've taken it upon myself to predict exactly how they're going to maul my favorite universe . . .) $#*%^$&! Oh wait. I'm not making a red cent off of this marvelous expenditure of mental aerobics and plot twists and tired jokes, so . . . HA!

Notes: Folks, I know a lot of stuff is wrong. I'm looking at the wonderful, incredibly rich tapestry of X-men past and present, and trying to reduce it to what a splice-happy director might do. It's not easy being unfaithful ('specially to Gambit and his awesome, shady past . . .) but face it. They're not gonna go into thieves' guild and Belladonna and Mr. Sinister (ooh, I love that dark little secret), much less Beast or Nightcrawler or any other weird mutations as HEROES in a mainstream movie. That's only for us freaks and geeks. I'm doin' my best, but I'm sensitive, so hold back on flames—and thank you SO MUCH (!!!) for the tremendous review turnout on the first one! And without further adieu . . . 

It was a lonely stretch of Canadian highway. Considering his state-of-the-art motorcycle came close to driving itself, it's a wonder the lone occupant didn't drop off to sleep. He had, after all, been driving for most of two days, not counting the few hours he pulled off the road into the woods. Even he got hungry.

Mostly, it was the changing smells of the countryside (and the potholes) that kept him even semi-conscious. As he traveled north, visiting old haunts along the way, the smells all changed subtly. The wind whipping his face and hair smelled so cold and clean it burnt his nose, and floating on it were scents of rabbit and deer trails, wolf territories, and over everything, the light but pervading smell of pine and hardwoods from the forests. Now and then, the sweet, ozone tang of a distant thundershower added its scent to the basket. The gibbous moon laid an icy ribbon of blue light on the black-glass lakes the road curved to avoid, and even the man had to admit it was beautiful country. If only it didn't have so many bad memories attached to it.

Abruptly, the reverie was broken and the man snapped alert as the moon glinted off something smooth and silvery rising out of the trees, just before disappearing behind the clouds. He roared around another bend and pulled the bike over to the shoulder. Down in the valley surrounded by mountains, a metallic roof broke the green canopy. Whatever it was, it was in rough country. He carefully guided the bike down the steep bank, hiding it carefully in a stand of trees. He'd have to go the rest of the way on foot. He hiked up his leather jacket and set into a ground-eating lope through the sparse underbrush, and before long, his nose led him to the godforsaken outpost of hell whose exterior he didn't remember, but the smell of which he could never forget. Place still smelled the same. Funny. You'd think fifteen years of Canadian winters would wash away the stink of pain and chemicals and broken lives.

He walked across a fallen chain-link and barbed wire fence. He started a little, despite himself, when he stepped on a fallen metal sign hidden under the carpet of leaves, which bent and protested loudly under his boot heels. _Kinda spooky, ain't we? _he taunted himself silently. _Ain't nobody here but ghosts._

Stalking around the building perimeter, he eventually came to a blackened, gaping hole in the concrete-block wall, the shape of which he vaguely recalled. "Hell, if there was a fire that night . . ." he began muttering. At the thought of 'that night' his mind immediately leaped to the first real (confused, but real) memories he had: the pain of his claws unsheathing, people running, sparks from cut wires, smells of fear and burnt plastic. Running into the freezing Canadian night, trekking back to civilization . . .

The flapping of birds' wings, from doves that had nested inside the building, startled him back to the present. He entered, the empty echoes of his clicking boot heels on the tile floor and the soft crackle of dried leaves bringing a few other small animals out of hiding. He had to walk only ten feet down a dark moldy hallway (he didn't recognize it) until he came to a door, aslant on its hinges, that read "Weapon X Records" in peeling stenciled paint. Entering cautiously, his heart sank as he looked on rusty, ransacked file cabinets and drawers left lying on the floor, along with dusty old TI-180 computers from the early 80's with their circuitry ripped out. He feebly lifted a few of the file cabinets, hoping to find some trace or remnant, about anything. Nothing. Gazing out the small, broken frosted-glass window, he was alone with his ghosts and what was left of his memories.

Or not . . .an errant breeze tripped down the hallway, into the doorway, the tangy air tickling his nose with a stink he knew very well. Sabretooth . . .

Whirling, he leaped over the file cabinets and set off down the hallway at a dead run. He picked up the trail at a T intersection of hallways, smelled it on the handles of each successive door leading down the narrow 'Authorized Personnel Only' hallway, and finally, on the heavy steel door marked 'Danger—Restricted Area.' As he burst through the door to the vaulted room, he stopped short, staring at The Tank. That's how he thought about it—all capital letters. He forgot what he came there for as he stood frozen, holding the door, assaulted by suppressed memories of the God-knows-how-long-a-time he spent in that goddamned thing, being poked, prodded, argued about, x-rayed, celebrated over . . .

He was rudely forced into reality by the sudden, searing pain of claws raking across his hamstrings—he fell to the floor as roaring laughter echoed around the high ceiling. Looking up with a scowl, he saw a huge, bestial man perched menacingly on top of the tank. "Didja miss me, Logan?" Sabretooth grinned. "I'd say we're due for a rematch, little man."

Sabretooth strolled over to where the man named Logan lay not-so-patiently waiting for his healing factor to kick in and knit the torn muscles. "That was a low blow, Sabretooth," he said through gritted teeth, eyes full of hate. "I forgot you were a coward."

"You've forgotten plenty about me, runt," Sabretooth chuckled, and suddenly leapt atop Logan's back to whisper in his ear, effectively robbing Logan of breath. "Your head's so full o' lies you don't know what's real, do ya?"

Red was starting to film his gaze and Logan awkwardly swung his fist at Sabretooth's head. At the same time, he unsheathed his own personal arsenal, the three adamantium claws housed in his forearms. Unfortunately, Sabretooth was quick. Leaping agilely from Logan's back, the claws missed everything vital and slashed only Sabretooth's calf. With a growl, he deftly caught hold of Logan's wrist and swung him around in the same smooth movement. Logan was flung into the steel door, which until the moment he hit, face first, Logan had not realized bore numerous sharp furrows and gouges . . . in sets of three. "Betcha forgot ya did this, too, didn'ja, runt," Sabretooth snarled, his huge hand holding Logan by the neck, pinning his face against the sharp surface of the door. "We're due for a rematch, little man . . ." 

"Anytime, bub," Logan muttered, working his arm free. With a jerk, he put three small but very painful holes in Sabretooth's side. Sabretooth's roar echoed off the high ceiling again, and with a graceful arc, Logan flew through the air, crashing against the thick glass of The Tank. The wounds on his face were already healing. Suddenly Sabretooth growled close to his ear, " . . . but not today."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back to New York—the Salem Center, to be exact . . .

"Rogue?" 

"Rogue!" Kitty and Bobby were both getting a little impatient. 

"Uh . . . what? Sorry. Ah just seem to space out at the oddest times. . ."

"Uh, yeah, I kinda noticed. Anyway, Bobby was, like, wondering whether you still wanted the chocolate cake you've been meditating over for, like, the last five minutes, 'cause otherwise . . ."

"You can have it. Ah don't feel like eatin' anymore." She got up and left, moving like a sleepwalker . . straight toward Xavier's office.

"Well, that was easy," Bobby wondered aloud, looking after her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Come in," Professor Xavier called. Rogue, whose hand had been poised to knock, poked her head inside, looking a little shy and a little more reproachful.

"Ya do know _nobody_ likes it when ya do that, right?"

"Yes," he said with all seriousness. She was radiating anxiety; feeling her outside the door, he had just wanted to get to the heart of the matter a little more quickly . . .

"Okay. Jus' checkin." 

"What's wrong, Rogue?" Charles Xavier wheeled around the huge mahogany desk to a sitting area. He glanced back just as she was about to answer—"And don't say 'nothing,' because you're talking to the world's premiere telepath."

She smiled weakly. "Ah feel like Ah'm s'pposed to remember somethin' . . ." He waited expectantly as she sat down to face him. "Only . . . it's not me. Ah think it's somebody . . . else . . .?"

Xavier was instantly on the alert. "You think it is Magneto's thought," he said calmly, but with a twinge of dread inside. They did not need this at the moment . . . they had been making such steady (if not substantial) progress in helping Marie keep her "guests' " thoughts in check, and if Erik was planning something . . .

"It sure don't feel like one of Logan's, sir. His are, uh, quieter."

"You know the difference, and if you say you're sure, I believe you. You realize that I'll have to—"

"Not _another_ scan!" She cried wearily.

"And here I thought I was the telepath," Xavier murmured to himself.

"Ah'm sorry, Professor. Ah know it's necessary. It just takes so much outta me—you're sure there's no other way?" The patient, affectionate look on his face said it all. "Let's get it over with, then."

"If you would focus on that feeling," Xavier said with a concentrating frown—Rogue's mind was such a jumble, it was hard to decipher anything—"and you have—thank you." He closed his eyes, feeling for the emotion, sifting through Rogue's own frustrations with her powers, loneliness, longing . . . to find that cold, tickling feeling of something half-forgotten pushing its way to the front of a mind . . .

His eyes snapped open. If he were a man given to rude language . . .


	3. 3--Enter Mystique

Disclaimer: (a la black-and-white 1920's Italian-actor-playing-an-Indian-style . . .) 

Me no have characters. Me has used some other person's heap good characters. No money here.

By the way, I totally love each and every one of my readers, especially the ones who click on this abomination drawn in by such a stupid name and mediocre-sounding summary. Once again, keep in mind that I am using the Hollywood mindset to create this. If**_I_** owned Hollywood, we'd have had Beast, Nightcrawler, Angel, Mr. Sinister, and heck, the whole gang way back in the FIRST movie. So there. R/R if the mood strikes you, please don't make me cry . . . 

"It should be a simple operation for one as . . . experienced . . . as you." Remy gazed smugly at the beautiful woman across the table, whose tone held a twinge of sarcasm, and perhaps a dollop of disbelief. Coy blue eyes gazed back at him over chic sunglasses as she swept a strand of curly brown hair out of her face. 

"You'd best be careful, chere," he said lazily. "The people in dis café might expect me to propose if you keep goin' on like dat."

Her blue eyes flashed gold for a moment. "People in New York don't notice anyone beyond their own noses, and your cajun charm isn't going to work on me, LeBeau," she snarled. "I already have doubts about your professionalism. I don't like working with someone when I can't see his eyes. Now CAN you or CAN'T you do the job?"

"O' course I can do it, chere. T'ird best t'ief in de world, ain't that what dey call me? Just settle down 'fore we attract attention." She relaxed back into her chair, looking pouty; he smiled smugly. "Dat's real good; now dey just be t'inkin' we had a spat."

"I'm sorry for my outburst. But you know how important this is. This could affect mu— uh . . . children everywhere, if it goes right. A lot is riding on this--" 

"All right, all right, chere. I know all dat. Lessee. Basic breakin' and enterin', but in a not-so-basic place . . .kinda odd request, but hey . . . you do realize dere'll be a down payment, non?"

"It's here," she replied casually, patting her suit pocket. "I remember the contract."

"Well dat'll make everythin' easier. Oh, by the way--"he said, rising, and pulling on his coat, "I do believe dat contract includes you payin' for lunch."

"I told you, I remembered it," she replied testily. "Can you do the job tonight?"

Remy thought about it for a moment. "Sure, it's as good a night as any. "

"Good," she replied calmly, reaching into her pocket; "I have your—rather substantial—down payment, but you can be sure, boy, if you skip out on me, no one will ever find your body." She started to hand him the envelope, but Remy stopped her with a quick movement. He deftly maneuvered her into a cuddle, as he slipped his hand expertly around the thick envelope of cash in her pocket. 

"Dat would be a shame, chere, considerin' how many women want it," he whispered as he pulled away. "Don' want it to LOOK like a payoff, now do we, chere," he grinned. The woman was absolutely livid, which didn't exactly fit in with Remy's pretense, but would have to do. "See you tonight," he continued, louder. "Good to see you again . . . Ms. Darkholme."

She strode away, muttering to herself, "Cocky little son of a . . ." Fortunately, she didn't have too far to go. Walking through a few alleys, she made it to the condemned warehouse nicknamed "Ground Zero," interrupting Toad's afternoon nap on the grubby couch. He opened one eye lazily, surveying her attractive form. 

"Not to be too forward," he mumbled, with his English accent, "but aren't you usually a little more blue? And naked?" He smiled smugly at the disdainful look she gave him, and rolled over. 

"We're doing it tonight." He sat bolt upright; now it was her turn to smile smugly. She continued, quite businesslike for one who is suddenly blue—and naked; "Get Sabretooth, wherever he went . . . and the chopper—you did alter the design?" Toad nods disbelievingly. "Good."

"So the thief was to your liking? What is 'e, sixty? Seventy? Grizzled and old?" He yawned (slimily, of course) and wiped sleep from his eyes, staring rather blearily at the cracked concrete floor.

"No, he was most definitely NOT to my liking. He's a cocky little bastard, hardly a few years out of high school. If he ever went." 

Toad was unspeakably amused. No that it was incredibly hard to get on Mystique's bad side, but he had new respect for anyone who could tick her off so much in half an hour."So the infamous "Gambit," the third best thief in the world, is a snot-nosed little teenager? 'Ow do you bloody well know it was 'im, and not an imposter?" 

"We don't." Her look dared him to reply.

Then he smiled. "Well, lucky thing you like them young," he jibed philosophically. Then he jumped over the sagging couch and scurried along a pipe to the coffeepot.

"Why do we keep you around, you nasty-minded . . ."

"Because without me," he shot over his shoulder, "there'd be no one to blame for the mucus on the coffeepot 'andle."

The words that followed cannot be repeated in mixed company.

I love it! Mystique is such a . . . well . . .* ahem * see line above . . . J

Sorry it's so short, folks. I cut and splice and rewrite EVERYTHING at least twice, so I take FOREVER . . . drives me crazy too, I know.

By the way . . . I love accents. Can you tell?


	4. 4--The Contract

Los character-o's no son de me. Tengo cero dinero. No sue-o.

Thanks for the kind response, y'all! I'm so fed up with all this sappy fanfic crap, with no point, no characterization, no lesson to be learned, no bantering conversation, no characters to fall in love with. 

That's right.

*~* I'm ANTI-FLUFF!!!!! *~*

coincidentally, I don't like songfics much either . . .

Just so you don't get confused, some of this is in "pseudo-Remy's" point of view. [It's involved.] Ya know how you see your memories sometimes in third person? Well, I warned you . . .Just enjoy. J

"_Merde_ . . ." he thought. "_Remy, how do you get ya'self into dese t'ings?_"

Gambit shifted along the ten-foot wall surrounding the maximum-security prison, freezing at a few unexpected cricket chirps. Already he'd hid his motorcycle and found a security system box, on the chain link fence fifty feet from this one, and disabled it admirably. Scattered ground sensors, random laser beams, and motion sensors—enough to be impressive, if not a problem—all disabled for a span of 30 minutes. It was temporary, but was less likely to trip a systems check that might alert someone. Henri was so cocky, thinking only he could work the computers. The moonlight sifted through the clouds, throwing suffused silver light onto the wall in patches that were easily avoided . . .the high, dry grasses swished around his shins, but the whispering was no louder than that the cool wind caused naturally. Gambit was perfectly at home in the dark, and he lived for the thrill of the pinch. 

Coming to the section of wall that Ms. Darkholme had assured him (and he had researched) was surveillance-free, he ably pulled himself up. The barbed wire coils at the top were a joke—he just pushed them aside with his long metal bo staff, his weapon of choice, to leap (executing a flip—just for style) gracefully to the inside. 

He slipped inside, found the security box with ease, and again disabled all alarms for half an hour. He made sure all the sensors in the halls—metal detectors, fingerprint and voice recognition, and keypads—would still act normally, but no alarms would be triggered. It was a special brew of wizardry Henri had cooked up, which had become the standard; people could still pass through the stations, and the sensors appeared to work normally, but they would accept anything. No one became suspicious, and Gambit got to waltz right in. Last, he located the surveillance camera room, luckily unoccupied at the moment. Again, with Henri's teaching, (_Cocky he may be_, Remy thought, _but he's awful good wit' dis computer crap_) he froze all the screens with pictures of their respective empty hallways. 

__

It was perfect. I know it was perfect.

With few mishaps, he made his way through the tinny fluorescent-lit halls and rewired security measures. It was a breeze; he easily avoided two guards. When he was growing up, everyone said it was uncanny how he seemed to "feel" someone coming, even before they could be heard . . . whatever it was, it came in handy during a heist. He was almost surprised at how quickly he came to the guardroom—a little 20' x 50' thing, hardly more than a continuation of the hallway; he still had more than twenty minutes left. 

What could've happened?

A sign: DANGEROUS PRISONER, CHECK METALS HERE warning or something; but to Gambit it was a blazing neon sign saying, "Here I am—get what you were paid for." Now, granted, it's a little unusual to steal a person . . . but if the money's right . . .

__

Not'ing happened. It was all according to de plan . . . 

It was supposed to be easy. Free a prisoner named Erik Lehnsherr. A "special-case high-security" prisoner, though if the man could do what you heard, you weren't surprised. You wouldn't underestimate someone who could control metal like Mr. Lehnsherr—"Magneto"—could either. . It was only getting OUT of a maximum-security prison that's a problem, right? And that was all . . . taken . . . care . . .of . . .?

__

Jus' not MY plan. 

He had hidden _quite_ well inside the guardroom (what did thieves do before holograms?) waited for the _perfect_ time, and –oops, you were supposed to check those METALLIC keys at the door, how DID they get back in your pocket, where a threat to humanity like Mr. Lehnsherr could feel it? 

He waited . . waited . . . he hated waiting . . waited some more . . . ah. That had to be him walkin' on down the lil' plastic hallway: commanding, regal air, white hair, plastic buttons . .

In ran a guard . . . only it wasn't a guard—he . . . she . . . was blue. And naked_. Yep, picked up on that right away._ They hugged. It hadn't _quite_ descended into madness yet, so in hopped (. . . ?) a little green guy in a rumpled . . . * _ahem_ * bloodstained guard suit, and shook Magsy's hand. . .

"Did you kill him?" He—she . . . it asks . . .

"I'm not a monster." The Erik guy had the nerve to be affronted. As if this was normal . . .

"Sabretooth's in the chopper—"

__

I didn't drink before dis heist . . . I swear, I didn't go to dat bar for anyt'ing but de music . . .

Cue explosions in roof . . . boom, boom; falling rocks, debris, darkness— the main power must've been hit, because all the lights went out. Remy automatically scoped out a possible escape route, what with how the rocks were piled almost to the roof . . . 

__

It's so boring to wait . . . and de girls were pretty . . .How'm I gonna get outta this?

The helicopter landed easily on the flat remains of the roof. Big guy flyin' it, blonde, nasty-looking. Sabretooth—right. He jumped out, came down the rocks, smelled the air, and walked . . . 

right . . 

to. . .

Gambit's hiding spot.

To say being held aloft by the neck is uncomfortable is like saying a knife in the gut is not fun: it's the understatement of the year. It's even less comfortable when the holder has three-inch, claw-like nails. Jean-Luc would be proud, though: not one sound did Gambit make. _"Suffer in silence . . ."_ Gambit would be a lot happier suffering in silence if he could just manage to dig his thumbs into Sabretooth's rock-hard wrist tendons and loosen the iron grip just a hair . . .breathing would be nice. An attempted kick at the Toothy's stomach just earned a _squeeze_.

Mystique came gliding forward, squinting suspiciously at Gambit. "I thought he had a partner," she cautioned Sabretooth.

"If he does, he didn't bring him," the man-beast snarled.

"Good." Her cold yellow snake eyes searched Gambit's face. Silver flecks started dancing on the edges of his vision, telling him he wouldn't be conscious for just too much longer if Sabretooth didn't let up soon. His oxygen-starved mind carefully catalogued the way Mystique's short red hair and blue skin melted into Ms. Darkholme's (the contractor's) features under the moonlight. She stroked his cheek and pouted seductively. "We appreciate your contribution to the Brotherhood," she purred into Gambit's ear, " . . . especially volunteering to take the blame. Some sacrifices must be made. You understand."

His vision went white, then black, then he found himself gasping and coughing on the floor. Hell, he'd bruises for a week from that—scabs too, from the way his hand came away a touch bloody. Mystique, Sabretooth, Toad and Magneto were picking their way up the rubble to the roof and the helicopter. He picked himself up and ran after them—he wasn't about to take the fall for anything. Not in the contract. He had to hurry, though . . . they were taking off . . .

It was then that Remy realized his actions wouldn't exactly redeem him if the audience happened to tune in a little late; how convenient if someone just happened to miss the little choking scene and only see a momentarily delayed, perhaps expendable teammate rushing toward the escape vehicle. At least, that was what the X-men, hovering above in the blackbird, saw in the path of their searchlight.

**__**

"Merde . . ."


	5. 5--Chaotic Fight

GOD I'M STUPID!!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE I **_SKIPPED_ **THIS CHAPTER WHEN I UPLOADED!!!!

That's what I get for writing so far ahead of what I post. Sorry. This one's nice and long, and should be rather enlightening to all you poor people that I thoroughly confused with my mistake. (Thanks for the questions! I might never have known, otherwise!) Apologies to everyone! I feel so bad!

PLEASE REVIEW! MY SELF-ESTEEM IS CENTERED IN MY BIG TOE IN LIGHT OF THIS GARMANTUOUS MISTAKE!

Disclaimer: They's not mine. They's Marvel's. And the movie industry's, now. But they're not doing a good enough job, so, here we are. Sue away. I might just give you my gas money. Oh wait. 

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The first energy blast hit the hovering helicopter's tail. It dropped three feet back onto the roof, smoking. Gambit looked up in time to see a man in black leather and a visor jump down from the sleek black plane onto the rocks and strike a hero stance. Then another energy blast, from the man's visor, took the rocks out from under Gambit's feet.

__

Could dis get any richer? He thought sardonically as his feet flirted with the sliding rocks; catching the momentum of the shock wave, he used his natural agility and instincts to flip to solid ground. Gambit didn't like heroes. He liked heroes with energy blast capabilities even less. He ducked into a narrow but deep crack and activated his hologram. It was programmed to chameleon his surroundings: maybe he could wait out this hero brawl, or at least see what it was about.

Safely hidden, he observed the surreal scene of chaos; it was like peeking into someone else's dream. Screams, orders, and roars rang out in the darkness. A strikingly exotic black woman with white hair was sending gales of wind and rain at Magneto's group, and occasional lightning flashes lit other random scenes (which also served to effectively screw up Gambit's night vision). He blinked wildly as the toad man scurried up a wall and hooked his prehensile tongue around Mr. Hero's foot. FLASH. Mystique was defending Magneto by the helicopter. FLASH. And finally, a dark, animalistic shape was edging toward his hiding place, sniffing the air. 

__

Not dis time, 'Tooth. Gripping his bo staff, he waited until the shape came closer, and—

Remy gathered a scant handful of rock dust. A nanosecond's charging served its purpose; the dust particles exploded with tiny _pops!_ on contact with the hunter's face, just as the bo connected with his solar plexus, doubling him over. Another quick swipe and he was on his back, legs knocked out from under him. A low growl emanated from the dark heap on the ground, and the lightning bolt illuminated a rather short, very angry, dark-haired man with—_SNIKT!—_two sets of foot-long metal claws. Not quite who Remy expected . . . 

__

Merde—if I hurt him, dey ain't never gonna believe I'm not wit' Magneto's gang—he vaulted over the man and ran lightly over the debris, the mists from the summoned rainstorm slicking his face and hair and making his coat heavy. 

FLASH. Lightning hit the ground near Gambit, searing his vision painfully, but he did glimpse Sabretooth sneaking up behind the African woman. 

FLASH. She staggered, holding her side. The thick, heavy darkness pushed in once more though the clouds still roiled with unspent energy. With a running calculation, Gambit grabbed a fist-sized rock from the ground, charged it, and lobbed it, with a glowing arc of energy residue, at Sabretooth's head. Maybe, just maybe, if he saved her, they'd believe he wasn't against them (and leave him alone, of course). And it didn't feel too bad to get back at Sabretooth, either. "Don' you know it ain't polite to attack from behind, 'Tooth?" he taunted. "'Specially a pretty lady like dis one . . ." For good measure, he dropped and swept his leg under a growling 'Toothy, who fell like a ton of bricks. Remy leapt nimbly back to his feet, scooped up the nearly unconscious woman (after all, Sabretooth wasn't dead, just incapacitated) and bolted for the roof. 

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Jean was waiting impatiently in the blackbird; she was ready to be of assistance but knew her power didn't really come in handy in a fight like this. She could feel the psychic imprints of people moving around below her and all around, but she couldn't see much of anything in the limited range of vision the windshield allowed. Cyclops—Scott—had told her to stay with the blackbird, guard it, but surely there was _something_ she could do . . . she felt Storm come quickly closer, radiating distress and pain. Finally. Something to do. She lowered the stairs and hopped out, scanning for any danger, when suddenly, a shower of electrical sparks cascaded over her. Looking up, she saw a twisted beam from the prison ceiling thrust clean through the blackbird's cockpit. If she'd stayed inside, she'd be dead. "Thank you, Storm . . ." she muttered to herself. ~ The Blackbird's down. No telling how long it'll take to fix. Over, ~ she informed Scott telepathically. A blue flash of light caught her eye . . . 

Gambit ran hard up the incline of loose rocks (not an easy job with a person slung across his shoulder), the rock chips scattering under his boots and plinking down the sharp incline. But just as he reached the top, he heard something behind him. He whirled just in time to see an indecisive Sabretooth turn from a would-be attack and lumber toward the damaged chopper, which was just taking off. Except—the blades weren't spinning . . .

Gambit could only stare. A sphere of crackling bluish energy surrounded the helicopter, glinting in the darkness like the moon off rippling water. It was a stunning display of the flexibility of Magneto's powers. Gambit watched, a little dumbstruck, as it flew peacefully, silently away toward the horizon. There went any plans of stowing away.

A shout brought Gambit back to the present. It came from Mr. Hero (sounding quite frustrated)—he obviously fancied himself the leader of this little band of do-gooders. Anyway all Gambit heard was "------verine! Forget Sabret---! GET HIM!" Gambit knew a warning when he halfway heard one. He swore and sprinted hard, trying not to jar the injured woman too much.

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Jean was frustrated. First Magneto escaped, now her power seemed to be malfunctioning. "—Storm?" she called into the darkness. She should be right on top of her . . . Quite suddenly she was face-to-face with a young, startlingly attractive man of about twenty, carrying Storm, wounded, in his arms. He wore a black jumpsuit and a trench coat, and his eyes were covered with sleek, reflective wraparound glasses despite the hour of night—but none of that was responsible for her surprise. She simply—didn't—sense him. If she concentrated very hard, she could feel something—well, someone, obviously—mingled closely with Storm's presence—but it was more like a shadow, a memory of a person than like the consciousness of a young man. Her mouth worked soundlessly with confusion and shock, but he didn't leave her any time to work in another emotion; instead, he gently laid down the woman, turned, and bolted toward the edge. "Wait!" she cried belatedly, but then duty took over and she fell to caring for her fallen teammate, who had a nasty set of deep claw marks across her back. 

It was always a possibility, to have a heist spoiled as badly as this one, but Gambit had never believed it. He did remember the rule though—as if it was hard to remember**_. Get out. Whatever you have to do, get out._** So he sprinted as quickly as his long legs could carry him, silently striding across the wide, flat roof of the prison; the air was heavy with ozone from the lightning strikes, and it made his lungs feel strangely clean as he breathed deeply, preparing to jump . . .

He really hadn't counted on the short man with claws making it up to the roof so quickly. Gambit's quick reflexes threw him to the side, and kept the claws' swipe from going clean through his stomach, but as it was he received a burning slash about the length of his hand across the side of his ribcage. It hurt like hell. Maybe that was why he didn't see the edge of the building coming up so quickly, why he couldn't compensate fast enough. Whatever it was, he fell. Only long hours of training kept him from panicking—he righted himself with a twisting flip and landed lightly on his feet (sort of). He didn't take more than four or five somewhat unsteady steps, however, before all his efforts became useless. An energy beam caught him in the lower back, throwing him heavily forward onto the dry, dusty grass. Mr. Hero had made the climb up to the roof and decided to immobilize the only link to this mystery he could still see.

Damn heroes. 


	6. 6--Aftermath

"—but you know what Marie's powers do, how do you know—"

"I DON'T know! But he's hurt, and I want to help him!"

Only the thief's instincts kept his eyes closed as he woke up to the sound of an argument. His mind felt murky as he silently took stock of himself: his injuries were not tended; blood still trickled slowly down his side, and his back felt like he'd fallen asleep outside on a hot July noon. His face felt grimy and dusty, a contrast to the cool metal he felt under his cheek, and he could feel the smashed lens of his sunglasses digging into his brow bone. Probably broke them when he fell. He could sense four people, two men, two women, one injured—he could probably take them all down if he had surprise on his side . . .

"He's awake," a gruff voice announced. Well, shit. 

"Are you sure? I still can't feel a thing . . . " a woman asks.

"I'm sure," the gravelly voice cut in. He continued, "Why don'tcha just open your eyes, bub? You ain't foolin' anyone playin' possum."

"Au contraire, mon ami," Remy felt himself croak out. Someday, his mouth would get him into trouble. "I been assured I play a beautiful possum." He snapped his eyes open to make an intimidating glare at his captors. 

The effect was instantaneous. How could it not be? Those two devil eyes, like two red embers glowing from dark sockets over the cracked silver remnants of his sunglasses, were enough to unnerve anyone. Everyone in the hastily repaired blackbird went very, very quiet as they momentarily wrestled with the idea of such an obvious mutation. Remy, however, had a different reaction. It was much brighter than he had thought, with the light reflecting against the shining surfaces of the plane's interior. He fought the urge to blink his painfully photo-sensitive eyes as he sat up, fumbling in his pocket for the spare pair he usually kept, not really surprised to find nothing there. He was going to have a blinding headache if he didn't get some sunglasses soon. Well, if he couldn't play it cool, he'd just have to max out the intimidation factor. That meant being Mr. Tough Guy, no pain. He stood up and glared coolly at each person until they glanced away uncomfortably, then started surveying the climate (emotional and physical). 

He was in a tiny 4' x 6' cell: no bench, no bed, and hardly enough room to stand up. This was a holding cell, nothing fancy. Everything was smooth metal, very shipshape, and the bars were set so close he could hardly fit his hand through them. And the red-haired woman, the short, clawed man, and the injured African woman (from her makeshift gurney) were all looking at him. They were all suspicious. (_Thank you for the obvious, Mr. Empathy sense)_

"Wolverine, come take the wheel," Mr. Hero's commanding voice from the cockpit cut through his inspection, and the short hairy guy—Wolverine—walked to the front of the plane. 

"Yeah, yeah, One-eye," Remy heard him mutter not-so-quietly on his way up. Remy smirked. He could probably get along with that guy, given the chance. Not so with Mr. Hero. His arms were folded over his chest as he swaggered back, like a disapproving father about to scold an errant son, and that's about the attitude he radiated, too. 

"Do you realize what you've done?" One-eye spat suddenly. 

Remy leaned against the cell's wall as took a fresh pack of cards from his belt and started shuffling them nonchalantly. "Pr'aps you'd better explain it t'me," he replied with a cheeky grin. Oooh, you could almost see steam pressure building up between those lil' ears . . . 

"You mean you don't even realize that you were working with the world's leading mutant terrorist group? That you've endangered all of humanity in one fell swoop? That YOU, whoever you are, have helped release a MADMAN bent on WORLD DOMINATION and MASS GENOCIDE?" His little tirade went on for a while. Remy did his best to keep from laughing (which would ruin his poker face), concentrating instead on doing increasingly complicated card shuffling tricks. 

"You done, One-eye?" he asked boredly when the ranter stopped for a breath. There was a faint snigger from up in the cockpit.

"Haven't you heard a WORD I've SAID?" Cyclops shouted. Gambit glided over menacingly until his face was mere inches from Mr. Hero's visor.

"If you don't have a goddamned good excuse for being where you were and doing what you did, then you'll find yourself in prison so quick . . ." He trailed off when the red-haired woman touched his arm, still glaring balefully at Gambit through the slits in the cell bars. Gambit was pleased to note that One-eye had to glare _up_. He considered One-eye, then casually replied, 

"De money was good." 

If you've ever seen a freshly caught fish flopping around on the deck, gasping for air, you might have an idea of what Cyclops, the X-men's fearless leader looked like. Remy smirked at Cyke's disbelieving stare and sat down against the wall. "Is dat all you wanted t'talk about?" he taunted. He once more started shuffling the cards.

"What . . . How . . .How could you do such a thing? How can you call yourself a human being?" Scott thundered, regaining his powers of speech. He radiated disbelief, anger, and frustration. Idiot.

"News flash, mon ami," Remy laughed. He flourished his cards, flipped out the joker, and charged it slowly, so Cyclops could see the magenta aura of energy grow. "I ain't a human being." 

Remy flicked the card with unerring accuracy at Cyclop's face as Cyclops and Jean yelled each other's name. The card never made it through the bars, though; it simply stopped, floating in midair, as the afterimage of its glowing energy trail faded behind it. Remy, too, was immobilized mid-flick by unseen bonds of air. 

"Holy . . ."

The kinetic energy in the card detonated with a muffled explosion, but the light and heat were contained in a spherical telekinetic force field Jean threw up at the last second. Scott and Gambit glared at each other as smoke roiled against what seemed the inside a clear globe. "Jean, put him out," Scott commanded coldly. 

Jean looked ready to protest, but one look at her fiancé's face, and she concentrated grimly. It wasn't simple to knock someone out telepathically in the best of times, but she wasn't sure she could even get a psychic fix on the man. She hadn't been able to feel him before, when he rescued Storm; the cell still felt empty to her. Luckily, she realized she could target him by aiming inside her already-constructed telekinetic field. She delicately probed for the part of the mind that controlled consciousness. It was most unnerving; sort of like probing a table or chair—he didn't seem to be a living person at all. 

Suddenly, she brushed contact with his mind, quite a bit harder than she meant to, since she didn't realize how close she was. His eyes widened, and he slumped, looking shocked in the bonds that held him. She, however, went rigid as a backwash of memories rushed through her. This was a rare occurrence, much like the backfire of a gun that happens whenever a strong telepathic shield is breached—and a very private mind lain open and vulnerable. Harried impressions flitted past her mind's eye: faces (mostly women) of people he'd known, a sense of risk, loneliness and loyalty, a love of life, and a pair of coldly glowing red eyes; but most vivid were the latent memories of today. In a micro-second, she saw Sabretooth strangling Remy, felt his surprise and pain and need for revenge at the Brotherhood's betrayal. Jean soon collapsed under the assault of another person's psyche defensively pummeling her mind; Cyclops caught her tensely, swearing under his breath that if anything happened to her, the man would pay . . .

"I'm all right, Scott. Really." She glanced over Scott's protective shoulder cautiously, disbelievingly, at the prone form of the enigmatic young man whose tumultuous mind had mingled with her own. "And believe it or not, he's not the enemy." 


	7. 7--Logan & Rogue

Another disclaimer. Everyone has to hate these.

Yet again, it must be made clear to the world that I DO NOT own Marvel Comics. Nor do I own the characters I am using for your enjoyment and entertainment. I have no money. I do not know a way to get money off fanfiction—I doubt there is one—but in any case, it's safe enough to let me use them at this time. 'kay?

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The school was abuzz with rumors—every hour a few more popped up. A late night return in a damaged blackbird. Storm in the infirmary—she sure wouldn't be teaching any classes for a while. 

"Hey-hey! No history for a while! Score!" Bobby didn't seem too upset by that particular rumor. Rogue hit him. Hard.

"Ah can't believe you. Our teacher is hurt, and all you can think is 'no homework?!'" She sat and glared until his smile withered and he slouched low on the hallway bench. 

"Lighten up, Rogue. Everyone knows Jean's a great doctor. She'll be out of there in no time. Along with the mysterious wounded stranger. . . " Jubilee trailed off at their blank looks.

"Oh, like, come on! Surely you heard the whole eyewitness report! I heard from somebody whose roommate's girlfriend actually sneaked out of her room, and she saw Jean telekinetically whisking some guy through the lower floor halls, towards the medlab. He said that she said that there was a trail of blood on the floor, but I'm not sure I believe that part, you know?" Jubilee sipped her soda, oblivious to the stares she had drawn—she hadn't even had to take a breath. 

Bobby leaned forward, jerking the half-gone soda from her hands. "No more sugar for you. It's doing things to your brain," he announced in mock-judiciousness.

"It's diet! Aspartame, not sugar," Jubilee huffed, trying to wrestle it from Bobby's hand, "And Rogue," she added in a completely different voice, "there's someone behind you that you might be interested to see." 

She looked up to see Logan, who looked a little disappointed he hadn't been able to surprise her. Still, he had to smile at Rogue's dropped jaw. "Hey."

He didn't have time to say much else, since she had gotten over her shock quickly, and naturally, launched herself at her favorite person. She almost tackled him in the middle of the hallway. "Hey, kiddo." He was a little embarrassed, since all of her friends were watching, (and giggling), so he added, "Let's get outta here."

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__

Later, as they walked the grounds (ooh, folks, gotta remember all the way back to the 2nd chapter!)

". . . so basically, what felt like "remembering" to me was actually just a strong thought of Magneto's, something he would be thinkin' around this time, if something went wrong with their first plan. Ah guess they had an agreement that they'd bust out whoever might get caught, but it sorta had a time delay, since he was thinking more about the plan itself when I absorbed him . . . anyway, when the professor translated that . . ."

"They called me, jumped in the blackbird, and here we are," Logan finished for her. 

"Pretty much," she answered shyly. 

They walked in slightly uncomfortable silence for a while, admiring the beautiful gardens and trees the school possessed. 

"Don't you have to be back for class soon?" Logan asked gruffly, breaking the stillness.

"Nope. With Storm hurt, Ah have a free period right now—at least fifteen more minutes. Then I go to Scientific Machinery Design & Implementation."

Logan blinked at her. "How'd you—I thought everyone was just sayin' she didn't feel well."

"O' course that's what they're SAYIN'! Ya obviously don' understand the finer points and extent o' Salem Center gossip, Logan." She did her best southern-belle impression as she flaunted her superior knowledge. 

"You little . . ." Logan chuckled. Rogue waited, smiling, but he didn't say anything about anyone else being hurt. No stranger. Or if there was a stranger, he wasn't talking.

She bent down, scooped up a flat rock, and skipped it across the lake. Logan's went further. "Ah thought you would at least call or write or somethin'," she blurted unexpectedly (Unexpected for Logan, anyway—she'd been waiting a long time to ask). She settled on the bank, with Logan beside her. "It's been a year, and Ah didn't hear from ya once." 

"I . . . I just had to sort some things out, you know?" He looked chagrined. "And no, I didn't find anything at the base," he added as he saw the question on her face. He put a fatherly arm around her. "'Sides, darlin', since when is ten months a year?" 

"Close enough. You missed my birthday."

"Ah, surely you can cut me some slack on that one, considerin' that I didn't even know when it was!" He gave her that perplexed look that men get when they don't understand a woman's thought pattern. "Besides, by that time, you musta had lots of friends by that time. Like . . ." he squinted slyly . . . "_Bobby_?" 

"Who told you about that?" Rogue's eyes flashed indignantly—to cover up the embarrassment. 

"Word gets 'round, darlin', as you told me." He nudged her, hoping for a smile since she had just been teasing him about the gossip rings. She smiled wanly, got up, and walked away. 

Logan watched circumspectly, knowing full well that whatever kind of welcome she had expected, he hadn't delivered. Maybe it was better this way. She could get this crush out of her system and chase after someone a few decades (centuries?) closer to her own age. Maybe he could convince Jean to leave Mr. Dickhead and come with him instead. He stared at the rippling surface of the pond, which reflected the huge, virgin timber with foliage just starting to turn. It didn't have any answers either. 

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Sorry this is takin' so darn long, folks. I'm trying, really I am. Be patient, and thanks for reviewing! You have no idea what it means to an author unless you write for yourself!

(Note to any Catholics reading this—did anybody else attempt to give up reading fanfiction for lent? And fail miserably?) : D


	8. 8-The Charmer

All right. I believe everything has FINALLY been figured out (thanks to all the astute readers who corrected my booboos). I don't own 'em. I just know 'em like the back of my hand (or like to think that I do). I wonder if there's a way to put illustrations in here? That would be cool. I'm an artist too . . . so . . . ya know. Oh well.

After I write this, I might have to go back someday and rearrange it all into a real script. Sometimes I find myself taking too much advantage of the print medium, and telling too many feelings (a common trap in fanfiction)—that's supposed to either be demonstrated in action or in dialogue. Another note: I describe a lot, because if it were a movie, the visual paragraphs could be translated to audience comprehension in a fraction of a second. It's kind of annoying. 

Just thought y'all might like to know what goes on in my head 'bout fanfics. Anyhoo . . .

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One day later, in the mansion med-lab,

Jean held a gold fountain pen, filling out the medical reports on her patients. Storm had been a cinch; just loaded into the computer file. However, this new mutant required a whole new form, in triplicate hard copy. Paperwork was such a bore. Name: (Gambit ?) Height: 6'. Hair: Auburn. Eyes: . . . (good thing some person had the foresight to leave a space for "other") Eyes: . . .Red on black. It didn't look any better in her neat, un-doctor-like script. She would never admit it aloud, but his eyes unnerved her, even though they hadn't been focused on her for almost a day. She found herself staring towards his bed—the only occupied one in the wing, since Storm had left earlier that day—when she saw that he was stirring. His metabolism had to be _incredibly_ high. She'd administered enough morphine to keep him out for at least six more hours. (He wasn't really that badly hurt—in fact, the high metabolism would explain how he was healing so quickly—While Scott and Professor X had "compromised" on the Gambit' issue, he had been kept drugged for at least a day.) She scribbled a note about metabolism in the margin (so she'd remember) and walked over to update his chart. 

Remy was getting a wee bit tired of waking up and not knowing where he was. (That happened enough when he had a little too much fun and beer) He had definitely not had fun last night . . . day . . whenever . . . and he didn't think he'd had beer. He was laying on his stomach; his back felt a lot better now. Through the dissipating haze of morphine he could feel that his side was stitched up and bandages wrapped around his chest. The sheets—the sheets smelled way too clean. Not hotel-clean . . . no, this was hospital-clean. He reached up to rip off that damn oxygen tube thing when he realized he wasn't alone. 

"Hello there," Jean's businesslike voice managed to sound warm. "I dimmed the lights, so you can probably open your eyes." She was right. Minimal pain. He ripped off the damn oxygen thing. She wouldn't stop him. "Oh—I think . . . um . . ."

"It's all right, chere," he assured her. God, he hated hospitals. He was leaving any way he could. "Maybe you be tellin' me whose hospitality I be enjoyin'?" 

"Oh. You're at the Salem Center, in Westchester, New York. Currently the sole occupant of our med-lab."

"Merci beaucoup—Jean, isn't it? Did'ja get de license o' de truck dat run me over?" She was beautiful—at another time he might have flirted for real—but she was also a telepath. A spook. 

She smiled. "Which one?" 

"Y' know, chere, I jus' can't decide." He flashed her a reassuring grin as he sneakily sat up. "Cut, burnt, knocked out, _lectured _. . ."

"Ah . . .yes. I'd like to apologize for Scott's behavior, but it was understandable, given the circumstances—he was a little distraught . . ."

"Wit' a _femme_ like you by his side? What's he got t'be distraught 'bout?" That grin again. "It be like my _pere_ always tol' me—'stay away from dose redheads—dey's dynamite.'" She blushed (his voice was so warm, so sincere), which gave him time to slip off the bed. As long as he rambled—preferably complimenting the woman as much as possible—they didn't seem to know what he would do next. Hopefully his charm wouldn't fail him now . . . "He always say deir tempers made de chase a bit risky, but I jus' can' seem t' feel dat way—it's de danger dat makes de chase worthwhile, neh?" She was completely caught. He slipped towards the door while she stared, entranced. Classic. Good thing 

"Jean, about these pills . . ." Ororo stopped, confused, in the doorway. Jean was staring like a ninny at the man who had saved her, clipboard in her hand . . . 

" . . .What, Ororo?" Jean murmured finally, swaying. _Hypnotic low-level charm—have to watch this one. _Jean was embarrassed she had fallen for it. But the man was like a stone, his defenses even tighter than last night. She sensed not a shadow of a psyche. It was hard to tell with all the charm oozing from his pores, but he was probably thoroughly upset with her, as well, for invading his remarkably well-guarded privacy . . . "Just a moment, Storm . . ."

Gambit, however, had not missed a beat. He immediately turned to Ororo and swept her an impressive bow, kissing her hand. Storm looked surprised and flattered. "Ah, here's de lovely lady I have had de pleasure of assistin'. I trust you feel better, chere?"

"Indeed. And I must say, you look ready to be out and about," she teased gently, since he obviously wanted out of the med-lab. He was edging toward the door even as she spoke. 

"If it's all right with you, Jean, I believe I would like to speak with this young man. Would it be all right if we went up to my greenhouse?"

Jean hesitated, then softened. She still felt guilty about her accident last night, and wanted to make it up to him, he was almost healed, Storm could take care of herself, and he wasn't the enemy . . . her mind was still whirling from his charms. She reached into her pocket and handed a new pair of sunglasses to a smiling Gambit, saying "That would be all right, Storm. And Storm—" she called as they walked through the door, "—you should take the pills three times a day, not two." It _did_ come in handy to read minds. She had to remind herself of that, sometimes. 

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"I don't like it." Scott's face and voice were stony as he stared out the window of Xavier's office. The late afternoon sun lit his glasses to glowing scarlet.

"Do you mean that you don't like an unproven stranger's presence in the house," Xavier asked calmly from his desk, "Or that you don't like _HIM_ in the house?"

Scott gave him a look.

"Just curious," Xavier responded innocently. He finished filling out the Requested Services form on the Blackbird—good thing he knew some quiet mechanics. Scott was a great leader, but he did have a few rough edges to be worked out. Jealousy, for one. Xavier didn't quite understand it—anyone could see that Jean was totally devoted to him (even without the added surety of telepathy/empathy).

"Do the words '_The money was good' _ring a bell? What am I supposed to do with someone like that? What can you hope to accomplish by taking him in?"

"First of all, Scott, I'm not even sure he wants to be 'taken in. One, he's a little old for a student, and two, he broke into a maximum security prison and probably could have broken out of it, too, had we and the Brotherhood not intervened. That is not the work of an amateur."

"Great, so you want to recruit a _professional_ jailbreaker."

"I wish to recruit outstanding, _willing _mutant ability. Have you seen the charts Jean has drawn up on him? Apparently, he has the ability to convert stored potential energy into kinetic energy, basically creating a bomb out of anything he can touch. Not only that, but she said you all witnessed that he has amazing agility—Jean wrote something about an enhanced bone structure somewhere . . ." 

"Professor, that's fascinating, and I'm sure I'd rather have him on my side than the Brotherhood's, but he's not exactly the stand-up-for-justice type. How could he fight with us when he freed humanity's greatest living enemy for a briefcase of small, non-sequential bills?" 

"Your fiancé also said that he has some sort of low-level hypnotic charm, and . . . ah . . . I quote, 'is incredibly attractive.' You're sure that has nothing to do with your feelings for him?"

Scott turned, scowling. "He's rude, insolent, and dangerous. He is a menace to our team and a detriment to our cause. Tell me, Professor what other feelings SHOULD I have for him?"

"All you have convinced me of today, Scott, is that your view of the world—and authority—differs from his." Xavier disliked doing this. It's not a good thing to make your team leader doubt his judgment, but . . . "I most definitely intend to talk with him myself. If I find his usefulness outweighs his risk, I will ask him to stay on a trial basis. Is that clear?" 

Scott sighed, gathering his thoughts. He paced slowly across the floor, and looked Xavier in the eye. "What makes you think he won't turn on us if 'the money is good'?" 

Xavier stared right back, but without challenge. "I suppose we'll have to take his word for it."

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Another survey: (but not about catholics (thanks for everyone who responded so amusingly ;) ) –who all out there believes in Faeries? J

Not _fairys_. **Faeries. **I'm doing my term paper about them. Heehee!


	9. 9--The Greenhouse

At your request—I realized that no, I have not yet resolved or even addressed the Logan/Jean relationship tension—a grievous oversight on my part, since it was an integral part of the last movie, so it must obviously be resolved. WELL—not RESOLVED, as you can see from its shortness—that's the beauty of their relationship—the sexual tension and eternal question—**_why IS Jean with Scott?_**

BTW—I really am, for some strange and infuriating reason, on a kick where I feel I can please everyone. Reading reviews, however, has assured me this is not so: some people are crying for a Remy/Ro relationship; other purists are demanding Remy/Rogue as usual . . . Anyway. I see the movies as a chance to show as much of the X-men's history, however corrupted, as can possibly be condensed into two hours or less. If you noticed, Remy and 'Ro have met each other almost the same way they have in the comics—with Remy rescuing 'Ro, and during a pinch, no less. There are other parallels, too—I wonder who can find them . . . 

I am also struggling to figure out exactly how the next movie will resolve, and to write it [assuming that Remy is, of course, the main character]—but there is no way that Remy will end up with Storm. I'm afraid Remy/'Ro lovers are in a minority, and it is no part of the true continuum in any way, shape, or form—I totally do apologize, I'm gonna have to write a fic about that as well. However, they ARE going to . . . Oh, just read it, and I'm sorry if it's not to your liking. I hope it doesn't disgust you too much. 

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Logan, not being one for subtleties, decided to end all his musings and resolve the Jean issue. He walked boldly into the med-lab and blurted plainly, "Why have you been avoiding me?"

Jean was taken aback. " . . . Avoiding you? Is that what you think?" 

"I don't know what I'm supposed to think, Jeannie." He seemed perfectly calm and collected—impossible to be angry with. He sat down and gazed at her deeply. 

As she continued taking syringe inventory, Jean defended herself with a stiff "I've been in the med-lab since we returned. If anything, I think it's you that has been avoiding me."

"Is that an invitation?" he deadpanned, an irrepressible smirk twisting on his lips.

"Logan," Jean turned, exasperated, "do you really want to know why I can't be in the same room with you?"

"I'm all ears, Jeannie." He sat comfortably motionless, with the open, stoic face of a martyr.

"All right. You asked for it," she sighed. "Four little words—I AM A TELEPATH. It is incredibly uncomfortable for me to be around you, doubly so when Scott is around—I can't help but wonder how I don't actually _bleed_ when I'm in the same room with you two together." 

She paused for a deep breath and an undetectable psychic scan. Nothing. This was getting frustrating. 

Jean was tired of being dumped on. "Let's resolve this right now. I like you, Logan—but I **_love_** Scott." You'd think it would have some effect on him . . . "I am going to **_marry_** Scott. I don't want to hurt you, but I **_will not_** give up my fiancé just because you don't approve of him, and I refuse to feel guilty about that." The piece de resistance: "I'm sorry Logan, but I am not interested in a relationship with you." She held her breath as he ruminated on that information slowly.

He stood and came close. Inches from her, he murmured, "I'm glad we got that straightened out, Jeannie." Then he walked out as Jean stared, dumbfounded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rogue smiled shyly at Logan when he stalked past her in the hall, but he didn't notice. His eyes were hard, and he seemed to be headed for the garage—he was probably upset about something. She pretended not to care, but it had hurt when Logan had more or less brushed her off, but she still liked him, not to mention that she still felt deeply indebted. She felt as highly-strung as a violin string, but that was no excuse for being so crabby. She could just smack herself for being so mean to Bobby when he had asked her what was wrong. She'd snapped at him in the hall in front of everyone, on the way to Scientific Machinery Design & Implementation class . . . 

She plodded up the steps on an errand for Scott—as they'd entered, he'd told them quite curtly (he was wearing his I-just-lost-an-argument scowl) that they'd be having a visual presentation in the sub-basement. Then he turned to her and asked her to go fetch Storm, since she had volunteered to oversee the exercise. So now, she herself got to be the verifier of all kinds of gossip _and_ she got to see Storm, who happened to be one of her favorite instructors. The day _might_ finally be looking up. She reached the landing at the top of the stairs, and saw that the door to Storm's attic greenhouse was open. The sunbeams from her numerous skylights danced across the oaken hallway floor, a tapestry of rich, dark shadows. 

Storm never had guests. When asked about family, she usually said something or other about them living too far away. Yet through the leaf-choked doorway—plants competed fiercely for space in Storm's lush attic garden—Rogue could hear a young man's voice, low and warm, with Storm's silvery laughter mixing in. From the sound of their voices, they were approaching the door, so Rogue flattened herself to the wall where she could still hear. 

Inside, Storm and Gambit were quickly forming an easy friendship. His initial reserve, Storm had found, hid a keen mind and a quick wit, along with the ability to charm anyone's boots off. 

"So you had a run of bad luck, did you? " Rogue heard Storm tease. She next heard a purr of thunder as Storm summoned a miniature storm cloud to gently mist her extensive collection of exotic plants.

Gambit, as well, was quite at ease in Storm's presence. He delighted in making this beautiful, dignified woman break into outraged laughter. 

"De worst, chere. Believe me, I am usually a very lucky man."

Marie peeked around the doorjamb, through banana and hibiscus leaves, The stranger—the stranger from Jubilee's gossip!—was still hidden from view by the plants. She wanted to see **_him_**. His accented voice (she thought he might be Cajun) was just. . . _sexy_. There was no other word for it. Everything he said was a flirt.

"Well, your obvious innocence notwithstanding," Storm smiled, then spoke more seriously; "I've been wondering. No one can quite explain why it is you helped me. Why did you?"

"Ah . . . jus' right place, right time—I tol' you, Stormy: I'm a very lucky man." 

"Do not call me 'Stormy,'" she threatened half-seriously as she sent the tiny thundercloud his way. He leapt from his comfortable seat, yelling and dodging as the tiny cloud pelted him with surprisingly large, cold raindrops and a few sharp particles of hail—an action which just so happened to bring him into Rogue's line of vision. She gaped. She just couldn't help it.

He was gorgeous. A little older than herself, he jogged to a graceful stop in perfect—_perfect_—view. "Now why'd you go 'n get me all wet, chere?" he bantered back, grinning a roguish grin to melt any woman's heart. "Dat's no way to pry an answer from a man,"—his long auburn hair flashed in the sun as he shook raindrops out of it —"an' it's mos' uncomf'rtable f'me in my _fragile_ state." He had a body to die for. (--**_with_** bandages, thank you Jubilee's friend's girlfriend or whoever . . . wait till the gossip rings heard this.)

"I mean it, my friend. You had no obligation," Storm sighed as she slowly blew the cloud back over her plants. "Why on earth did you help me?" She managed to stare levelly at him while intuitively watering each plant perfectly.

" . . . Call it a weakness," he said finally, with a cryptic smile, taking off his sunglasses to wipe the mist off on his pants, " . . . **_Stormy_**," he added, breaking into a mischievous grin. Just as Storm gave him a reproachful look, he stiffened and turned slightly—towards Rogue. She tried to duck back into the hallway, but the leaves rustled, giving her away. 

"Who's there?" called Storm's calm, melodious voice. 

"I t'ink we got us a spy, Stormy-cloud." He sounded amused.

"Come in, whoever it is." Storm was getting impatient, but whether at him or her she couldn't tell—Marie sucked it up and ducked underneath the leaves.

Gambit felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Hard. Ducking under the gracefully drooping branches and lush tropical flowers was . . . an angel. Slim and curvaceous, her glossy brown hair, with an odd streak of white in front, was gathered into a loose braid that fell over her shoulder, wisps brushing her smooth, heart-shaped face. Sensitive lips were curved in an embarrassed smile, while her wide green eyes flashed a rebellious, if interested challenge at him—she knew she'd been caught in the act, but she blamed _him_ for her getting in trouble. He wasn't speechless, but he was a beat late in bowing over her hand—gloved in thin, warm green silk—and kissing her fingertips. He felt the power of her gaze, looked up, and realized too late that he didn't have his glasses on. "_Enchante, Mad'moiselle_," he murmured, lost in her eyes. She didn't appear to mind about the glasses.

"Yes, Rogue?" Storm asked, breaking the spell. "What did you need?" Back to Earth—Marie shook herself for spacing out. Darn romantic nonsense; it got her into trouble every time. 

"Storm," she reported dutifully, "Scott sent me to tell ya that we're havin' a presentation in the sub-basement—said you'd know what ah was talkin' about."

"Oh, yes. I'll be right there. Keep our 'guest' company for a moment, would you please?" She added as she walked to her adjoining room to freshen up.

Rogue turned back to the stranger, and was pleased—and discomfited—to find he was still holding her hand. His long, elegant fingers were warm through the silk gloves. "J'ai rencontré un ange, [I have met an angel]," he breathed. 

"Well, hello to you too," Marie laughed nervously, "but we might have problems gettin' to know each other if we don' speak the same language." Her heart was pounding. His eyes—his eyes were beautiful. 

The grin spread slowly across his face once more. "I t'ink we speak de same language jus' fine, chere." He leaned over and plucked a hibiscus flower from a stalk that was simply dripping with the fragrant blooms, reached up to tuck it behind her ear, and—she flinched. 

"Here, I think I've found a shirt you could wear," Storm said suddenly from behind him, inspecting a plain white button-down shirt. "It's been in the bottom of my drawer a while, but . . . " At his blank look, she explained, "I can guarantee that you won't want to miss what's going on in the sub-basement, my friend." 

"But . . ."

"No buts. However long you stay here (and I hope it is for a long time), the Danger Room is one thing you cannot afford to miss." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How's THAT for a cliffhanger, folks? ;)

HEY! I just saw a concept sketch for X-men 2 of BEAST!!! How cool is that! And we all thought they made Jean a doctor so they wouldn't have to make a Beast. Of course, if could be fake . . .

A note of explanation for tentative faerie believers: 

[Fairy]: a tiny, TINY, tiny classification for a single species of small, benign, helpless but beneficial faeries in female form.

[Faerie]: when capitalized, a world of mystical enchantment, where the ancient spirits (faerie) dwell. When unspecified, it refers to any and all denizens of that, the land between waking and sleeping, the land of eternal spring, where wisdom is indistinguishable from whimsy, and danger lurks in every dark crevice. These are creatures of air and imagination, dependent on nature and our open minds to exist. In short: boggarts, bogles, bocans, bugganes, brownie, blue-caps, banshees, miffies, nippers, nickers, knockers, noggles, lobs, hobs, scrags, ouphs, spunks, spurns, hodge-pochers, moon dancers, puckles, thrumpins, mawkins, gally-trots, Melsh Dicks . . . 

Guess which one **_I_** believe in. 

By the way, I highly recommend the books "Faeries" by Terry Jones and Illustrated by Brian Froud (the source of my quote), and "Good Faeries, Bad Faeries" by Brian Froud alone—possibly the coolest book I have in my collection. ;)


	10. 10--Danger Room/Decisions

Bad Snapdragon

Bad Snapdragon! Very bad Snappy! (slams her ears in the oven door) How dare you is forgetting about the story—I have been busy. Very, very busy. I'm sorry to have left anyone who might still be waiting---is anyone still waiting, since I'm so stupid as to have let this go for so long? I promise I'll be a little more regular. (gee, where have you heard that before . . .) It would definitely help if you reread a little bit, because I kind of just picked up where I left off, after all . . .

Note. The Logan/Jean issue is never resolved. It will never BE resolved. If it was, a great deal of people will stop buying the comics because the suspense of sexual tension is gone. So there. (it is fun to write, though.)

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Storm steered Gambit to a small control room gleaming with metallic surfaces and buttons and knobs that just begged to be poked and twisted. She left as students began filing past the slightly ajar door, leaving Gambit alone with his temptation . . .He listened to snippets of the students' discussions as they flitted to his ears. One conversation especially intrigued him. 

"—don't care, it's still not fair that Rogue and Bobby can go on a date, but they won't leave John and me alone for two minutes!"

"Yeah, but, ya know . . .Rogue's powers . . . it's not as if they could DO anything."

Almost before this puzzling statement drifted up the corridor, the door swung open to admit a distinguished-looking man in a wheelchair. He looked like just the kind of man Remy hated to talk to. Remy pulled out a deck of cards and started shuffling.

"Hello—my name is Charles Xavier . . . impressive, isn't it?" He said, gesturing to the cavernous metallic space through the window.

"Well, yes," Gambit replied slowly, nonplussed. "I'd have to say it's de largest room I ever did see . . ."

Xavier smiled and pushed a button—a big smooth one that slid down into its casing slowly. Cries of amazement came over the loud speaker as a dense forest sprang up around the group of students. The leaves burst into the yellow-orange of autumn foliage, dried up, fell off, and snow fell lightly, all in fast forward. 

Gambit's poker face, however, was stuck tight. "Yessir . . . a very large room."

Xavier chuckled at his refusal to be impressed. "I had hoped the awe-inspiring view of our Danger Room in action would make the mansion a bit more inviting . . ."

__

Keep shuffling, wait for a commitment . . . "You are welcome to stay, of course, whatever you decide. Despite your current . . . notoriety . . . I am quite assured of your character. You are a good person. And I need good people badly."

This was an awful lot of buttering up. They obviously thought he wasn't keen on staying.

"That reminds me," Xavier continued. "I must thank you for saving Ororo. She was one of my first students, you know, after Scott and Jean."

"Why does she stay?" Gambit suddenly found himself blurting. _Well, there goes the disinterested, aloof persona._

"You'd have to ask her to get the whole reason," Xavier said, ruminating for a moment, "but I know she believes in The Dream and it gives her satisfaction to work toward it, as it does all my X-men." 

"The Dream." _Always be wary of things that have capital letters like that._

"'Peaceful coexistence with the human race' is, I believe, how it's quoted in the school charter. Verbatim." Xavier smiled.

"Ah."

Face it. He didn't give a rat's ass for a dream, and he certainly wasn't the hero type. More the fringes-of-society-rebel who'd steal anything not nailed down. Then, he found himself gazing down into the danger room, where the students were engaged in a messy snowball fight. More specifically, he was gazing at Rogue. She had just dodged a sloppy slushball and launched one of her own, but just at that moment, a large icy chunk was hurled at the back of her head. A blonde-haired boy raced toward her and just before she was beamed, he raised them both on a pedestal of ice ten feet high. She clung to him, giggling. He looked mildly surprised and smug.

That was it.

"I wasn't plannin' on stayin' . . . But I believe my mind has changed. I might just give it a try—If I could just have a few days to gather my t'ings?" Gambit added, nonchalant.

"Splendid. And of course you may. Take as long as you need. Ah, Storm! I'd say it was a success, wouldn't you?"

Storm was smiling, and a new bounce was in her step as she entered. "Was there any doubt, Professor? They haven't been this excited about the prospect of physical training in months!"

Those two left, talking about practice schedules being drawn up, while Wolverine was left standing at the door, looking awkward. "Uh . . .anyway. I picked up yer bike from where ya left it . . . it's in the garage 'long with mine. Chuck wants me ta go with ya—if that's all right with you."

"No hard feelin's, eh, mon ami?" Gambit quipped, though secretly he'd rather go it alone. 

Wolverine snorted. "If there were, they were more'n repaid when ya took that shot at Cyke—just wish I'd had the opportunity.' 

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Again, I'm really sorry that I haven't been faithful to my wonderful, beautiful, puzzling fic. Heck, I don't even know where it's headed. It's a surprise to me as well as you when I get a flash of brilliance . . . .

Well, let's be honest—it's more than a flash. J Usually. 

Thanks for bein' so patient, y'all!


End file.
